


The Source Of Sorrows

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consent, First Time, Guilt, Kink Meme, Loopholes, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale sleeps, and Crowley starts to doubt whether he is a demon to be trusted.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 487
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	The Source Of Sorrows

Crowley hasn't moved from the sofa since Aziraphale headed upstairs. He can't make himself move yet, because if he moves he makes it real somehow. If he moves it means he's made a decision, and he's not quite ready for that.

_They've had too many glasses of wine to count, and counting is much harder when they share every bottle between the two of them. Crowley drinks faster, but in short bursts. Aziraphale steadier, but more consistently. It's so hard to judge who's had more._

_It's a constant source of argument, and amusement._

_They've reached - and then already passed - the point where things seem much easier than they should. The point where all sort of impossible, unthinkable things become possibilities._

_They're drunk enough that when they change positions - empty bottles settled apart from ones which might still have life in them - Crowley finds Aziraphale too close and too warm not to lean into when the angel laughs. And once he's close enough to feel that vibration of delight and amusement, it's too easy to lean in further, to find that wine-sweet mouth, and lay his own over it, crushing that startled little huff of breath._

_For a handful of incredible seconds - no longer, just a handful - Aziraphale is part of the kiss, his mouth a push against Crowley's own, the faintest hungry noise in his throat, as his strong, warm hand settles on Crowley's arm, fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve, and tightening -_

_\- before that same hand is pushing him away, expression apologetic and shaken, and something else, something quietly devastated._

_"Crowley, don't, we can't, you know that."_

_He does, he knows._

_He just pretends sometimes that he doesn't._

Crowley fills his glass again, drinks it, listens to the faint ticking of the clock in the other room.

_Aziraphale is sober, but Crowley refuses to join him, and maybe that's self-defence. Because he doesn't want to feel the embarrassment, the guilt, or the frustrated anger - especially the last, because Aziraphale doesn't deserve that._

_He should say sorry. But he won't, he's never been good at apologising for this._

_"I'm feeling exceptionally tired," Aziraphale says from the armchair he's settled himself in, voice oddly loud in the strange, tense quiet. "I rather think I shall go upstairs and - and indulge in a good night's sleep."_

_Crowley frowns over at him, because it's not in the angel's habit to sleep. He's the one who constantly needles Aziraphale about the pleasure of spending hours buried in warmth, limbs relaxed, mind unworried. The angel has always protested that he has no need of it, that it's a waste of time, there's always too much to do, and he hates the way it steals his awareness away, leaving him vulnerable and drifting._

_He's going to say as much, or to point out that if the angel wants Crowley to leave, he doesn't have to make up excuses, they're long past that._

_But the angel hasn't finished._

_"I doubt that I'll wake if you need my attention," Aziraphale says pointedly, each word forced out. "Should you want - anything from me," he adds._

_Crowley goes very still, throat suddenly too tight to breathe._

_"I won't wake," Aziraphale says, as if he's making a point, or offering Crowley something._

_Aziraphale very carefully isn't looking at him now, fingers twisting in his lap, as if there's more he wants to say, so much he wants to say but finds himself incapable of voicing it. Instead he pushes himself out of the chair, heading for the door at the back of the room that leads upstairs._

_Crowley stares after him for a long time._

Crowley leaves his empty glass on the table, and goes upstairs.

He's never had a reason to visit the bookshop's first floor. But Aziraphale is like a beacon, trailing the static of angel, and the tart smell of wine. Crowley could have followed him in his sleep.

He's left the bedroom door open, and Crowley almost expects him to be sitting on that old-fashioned, blanket-covered bed. He expects to find him stammering his way through a hesitant, embarrassed apology. Explaining that he'd changed his mind, or hadn't meant it, hadn't meant to suggest something so indecent, so desperate.

But instead, Aziraphale is beneath the blankets, asleep in his old-fashioned nightgown, hair a delicate spread of pale softness on the pillow. His clothes are hung up on the door of a wardrobe that looks pulled straight out of the Victorian era - that had probably resided in this room since the very same.

Crowley simply stands in the doorway for a few, long minutes, watching the angel's chest rise and fall. He's only seen Aziraphale asleep twice before, the first was more of an exhausted surrender to his body's limits during the fourteenth century, everywhere rife with the plague, healing a never-ending task, and one that he wasn't even strictly supposed to be doing. The second time he'd simply been blackout drunk, late seventeenth century, early eighteenth maybe? Both times he'd sat with the angel, watching his defenceless body so it didn't come to harm.

Which seems a sharp sort of irony here and now.

Crowley slips off his boots, and then very carefully lays down beside him.

The mattress sinks a little under his weight, jostling the angel gently. The bed smells like him already, soft and clean, hints of mint, and spices, and fresh rain, with that sharp, crackling under-note that's all angel.

A demon taking advantage of a sleeping angel - is that permissible? Is that allowed? Or is it just to be expected.

Crowley very slowly rolls into him, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to lay a long-fingered hand on his chest and feel him breathing. He watches the angel's sleeping face for as long as he can bear it, before he leans down and kisses him.

Aziraphale's mouth is soft, unbearably so, and it doesn't protest, it doesn't refuse, or turn away from his kisses this time. It just gently compresses under his own, over and over, as many times as Crowley wants. He finds himself sinking his weight down, indulging in the plush give of Aziraphale's mouth, turning his head a little, parting his lips to dare a delve between and taste the inside. 

It's arousing, so impossibly arousing, this gentle stillness, though Crowley hates it equally. And he finds himself unable to kiss him too roughly, to crush his mouth, to bruise it under the urgency of his own, though he wants to, can't help but want to. 

Crowley shouldn't do this.

He can't do this.

He can't.

He's better than this.

But everything in him wants to take what's being offered. Everything he's made of presses him against Aziraphale's solid warmth, as if to make a mockery of his self-control.

To be given half of what you wanted, a shaky, nebulous permission to indulge yourself - is that what Aziraphale is doing, indulging him? Does he even want this? Is Crowley supposed to be able to refuse, is he supposed to be content with it? Was it even permission, did he misread the words left so pointedly in that quiet room? Is it a test for him - to see if he's as good as Aziraphale thinks he is - if it is then he's failed miserably.

It must have been permission, it must have been, or Aziraphale would have protested this already, would have come alive under his kisses, under Crowley's weight pressed into him. Aziraphale's hands would push at him, a refusal on his lips, disappointment in his eyes. He's heard it before, he knows how it goes. _'Crowley, we can't, we mustn't, if they found out.'_ He wouldn't have let Crowley do this - he wouldn't have let him have any of this.

He draws the blankets back, pushes them away with his knee, and then his foot, exposes the vulnerable spread of the angel, from his loosely curled hands to his strangely delicate, naked toes, covered in-between by long white cotton, as if he belongs in another century altogether.

Crowley finds his hands pushing Aziraphale's nightshirt up, before anything in him can convince him not to, finds the skin warm underneath the drag of fabric. He stops when the material reaches mid-thigh to breathe, to breathe and call himself every vile name he can think of. He circles one of those wide, warm thighs with a hand, feels the solidity of it, the new and unfamiliar nakedness of it, before he pushes the material higher. He stops again when the material reaches - and then reveals - Aziraphale's groin. The angel is naked underneath, no underwear, which is unexpected and shocking, lewd in a way that the angel normally isn't. Crowley finds soft, pale hair, heavy testicles, and the gentle, thick curve of his cock. The angel looks so vulnerable, so trusting, and Crowley bites down on his tongue and hates himself a little more.

He touches.

How can he not.

The nightshirt tears up the middle, white cloth rent in one long line. Until Crowley can spread it open, can find all the pale, solid warmth of him, all gentle rises and soft flesh. He can slide his way up Aziraphale's body, his own clothes melting away, until they're a press of skin to skin that makes him shake a breath and kiss Aziraphale's unresisting mouth, again and again. Before he's moving on, lips against the warm, vulnerable line of his neck, the slope of his shoulder, opening around the pink peak of a nipple - where he indulges himself for a long moment, until it's wet and red under his tongue. He trails lower, mouth settling on the softness of his stomach, then the hard curve of a hip bone. 

He can feel himself shaking.

Is this indulgence, or is this worship.

Which one was he given permission for?

He knows where his mouth wants to end up, and he gives in to it, lowers it to the plump weight of Aziraphale's cock. He drags his tongue over it, tastes the musky softness of it, all delicate skin and unfamiliar shape. He tastes the heavy vulnerability of the angel's balls, settled beneath, and then the warm crease of his leg. Before he slides back up and draws the soft length of Aziraphale's cock all the way into his mouth. He closes around it, holds its warmth against the flat of his tongue, saliva soaking into it. He sucks, gently and indulgently, until it plumps in his mouth, blood making it thicker and harder.

It's almost unbearably intimate.

He can almost imagine how the angel would slide a hand into his hair, say his name, thighs tensing as he pressed up and inside, all the way down Crowley's throat -

Crowley's mouth falls open, lets Aziraphale's cock slip free, whole body suddenly tight with need.

He parts Aziraphale's heavy thighs, a spread of softness and fine, pale hair, slips himself between them until he can curve himself into the angel's warmth. It's so intimate, braced on his arms over that soft, sleeping face, so relaxed and so trusting beneath him. Though he shouldn't be, Crowley doesn't deserve it - doesn't deserve this. He's a wicked thing, not to be trusted, all sharp angles, hot pennies and fire, greedy for far more than this, so much more.

He'd told himself that he wouldn't fuck Aziraphale, that this was enough, that touching him and laying with him, and kissing the angel's soft, sleeping mouth would be enough for him. That he wouldn't make it something base, something vulgar and messy. But the body underneath him is already wet from his mouth, and Crowley's brutally, desperately hard, his whole body an ache of lust and need all the way down to his bones. His hips are already working slowly against the wide expanse of Aziraphale's thigh. Leaving tacky streaks and smears on the angel's skin.

Aziraphale's soft, trembling voice had given him permission, he has permission to want, and to touch.

He has permission to take.

How could he not take advantage of it?

His hands have already slipped between Aziraphale's warm thighs again, easing them apart wider, slowly making a space for himself between them. He doesn't want to break the quiet with a snap, so he lubricates his fingers without it, whole hand shaking as he pushes a knee up higher, finds the tight, hot clench of Aziraphale's anus. It's a shock, an intimacy he feels like he hasn't earned, and he does nothing but run his fingers there for a long minute, feeling the tension, the heat of it, the faint resistance when he rubs. The promise and the anticipation of pushing inside.

He could still change his mind. He could be the person Aziraphale thinks he is.

He pushes his fingers in instead, feels the heat and the stretch, glorious and obscene and all for him. He's careful, he's so careful, lubricant pushed in generously with two, and then three fingers, because he doesn't want to hurt him, and he can't use a miracle on a sleeping angel. He doesn't want Aziraphale to wake up and - and put a stop to this. 

_Please wake up. Please tell me you want this._

Crowley draws his fingers free, grasps himself with a slippery hand, and slides the head of his cock down to where Aziraphale's hole is reddened and glistening wetly.

For all that the angel's body is sleeping and relaxed, he's still tight, still a delicious squeeze around Crowley's cock, when he tilts Aziraphale's hips and presses inside. The angle is awkward and wrong, but it's too late, he's half in, and he can't bear not to keep sinking, to push in all the way, to bury himself in Aziraphale. And part of him had always thought that this would burn, that it would sear him like consecrated ground, and maybe he would deserve that. But it doesn't, it doesn't, Aziraphale's body is warm, and accepting, and so fucking perfect that every part of him aches.

Crowley's moving before he means to, long, careful thrusts that end in whimpers, tight little slides that open the angel up for him.

Aziraphale sleeps through it, doesn't murmur, doesn't so much as twitch. He looks serene and beautiful, and Crowley makes a sound that's close to a sob, overwhelmed by the feel of him, overheated and desperate in a way he's never been, and guilty in a way he can't bear. He leans down to kiss Aziraphale again, to mouth wetly at his jaw and throat. 

Before he's curving upright again, grasping the angel's powerful thighs. He slides both hands lower, thumbs pulling the softness of Aziraphale's buttocks apart, so he can see where he's stretching the angel open, the slickness of his cock as it pushes into Aziraphale's gently squeezing warmth, over and over. It's obscene and he wants it so much he can barely breathe, pace increasing, until the quiet smack of their skin meeting is lewdly audible in the quiet room.

This is the best and the worst thing Crowley has ever felt.

_The best and worst thing he's ever done._

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He leans down over the angel again, like he can't stay away, falls into him, hiking his thigh higher so he can - get deeper - kiss the softness of his mouth, press their foreheads together.

"I love you," he breathes out, words brittle and thin. "I love you." It's almost an apology, for wanting this, for taking it when he should have been better. When he should have gone home, should have left the angel to sleep, not taken advantage of his loneliness, and his need and whatever twisted thing made him give Crowley this. "I'm sorry." He should at least have sobered up completely before doing this. Too afraid of taking liberties that even Aziraphale wouldn't permit him.

He's so afraid of that, of being the demon he's so often accused of being.

Crowley wanted to be careful, he wanted to take this as slowly as he could bear. But it's all too much, he's wanted it for far too long. It's barely a few minutes of slow, indulgent thrusts before he's shoving in hard and deep, feeling Aziraphale's whole body jolt underneath him, skin and muscle denting under his greedy fingers. Aziraphale is still relaxed and soft, his thighs heavy under Crowley's tightly clenching hands, cock soft again, the thickness of it laid against the swell of his stomach, that's shaking with every hard thrust of Crowley's hips. 

Aziraphale's pale eyes are shut, lips slightly parted and still damp from Crowley's kisses.

Has the angel even done this before?

How much is Crowley taking from him?

The thought of it is horrifying, but it makes him groan desperate, twisted lust, leaves him pressing in harder, cramming himself deep and tight. He wants it to last, he never wants it to end, he doesn't know if he'll ever have this chance again. But he's already swearing through clenched teeth, whole body shaking apart, as he roughly takes what he hadn't ever expected to have. Until he moans and sinks himself impossibly deep, cock twitching as he spills a flood of heat into Aziraphale's unresisting body.

He breathes Aziraphale's name into the silence, pulls him close and holds him, while his heart pounds in his chest. The kiss he presses to the angel's mouth is wet, shaky with gratitude, and apology, and pain. 

But it isn't returned.


End file.
